Scorpion
by Marlex
Summary: The war is over and there is a new king, and therefore a new Master of Whispers, one shrouded in fear and mystery. They say she is a ghost, or she was raised by wolves, or she's a trained assassin. Or all three. (One-shot)


**Author's Note:** I wrote this one-shot for the CommentFic community on LiveJournal. The prompt was: "Game of Thrones, Arya, the new Master of Whispers." I hope you enjoy it.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Hector drank deeply from his ale and tried to drown out the noise emanating from the ranting man by the bar's fireplace. He'd put in a full day at the smithy. Was it too much to ask for a peaceful drink before heading home to his wife and children?

"The king sits up there on his throne, not giving a damn about us," the man shouted, earning himself a few murmurs of agreement from his drunken audience.

If Hector had known he would have to listen to such ravings, he probably would have gone straight home. Even his wife wasn't this annoying.

"King Jon's nothing but an oath-breaker who's used rumors and lies to take the throne," the man continued.

By now, the murmurs which had greeted him were more subdued, as if the assembled group, even in their alcohol-induced stupors, realized there was something dangerous forming.

"The king doesn't care if we are hungry. He doesn't care if our children don't have clothes to keep them warm. It's about time the people do something about this supposed king. It's about time the people do something to end their suffering," the man continued, seemingly unaware than his audience was now beginning to distance themselves from him.

"The time for action is now!"

Hector noticed the barman, a burly fellow with thick arms and wild beard that hid half his face, walk out from behind his station and make his way to the man.

"Lucian, I've let you have your say week after week," the barman said in a low, almost apologetic voice. "I've let you drink my ale and air your grievances. Your little crowds bring me a good business. But I'm not going to let my place become the stew pot for rebellion. It's time you left."

Hector couldn't help his curiosity and he turned slightly to see what happened next.

The man named Lucian looked for a moment like he would object. A few of his more fervent followers seemed willing to take up his cause, but none actually spoke up.

"Fine," Lucian said at last. "Just keep living under this false king and let him and others like him flatten you under their boots."

He took a long pull from his cup and stomped to the door, swinging it open with a flourish and then disappeared into the night beyond.

Just before Hector turned away from the affair, he thought he saw a small dark figure leave the bar behind the retreating Lucian. He couldn't be sure, and soon the matter was forgotten as the barman returned and offered to pour him another round.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Lucian was angry. No, he was furious. Why couldn't people see that their situation would not get any better until they stood up for themselves.

The cool air of the streets soon calmed him and he reasoned that he could find a new place to recruit members to the cause. It was probably a good idea to keep changing locations anyway. As they said, in King's Landing, there were ears and eyes everywhere.

He walked for some time, skipping from alleyway to alleyway as he made his way to the boarding house he had been staying at since his wife kicked him out of their home.

"Too much drinking," she'd said that night. May the gods damn her just as they damn that cursed bartender and King Jon while they were at it.

He was in a particularly dingy alleyway, trash and refuse and worse lining the sides, when a voice cut through the silence.

"Quite a show back there."

The voice was soft, little more than a whisper, but in the quiet of the night, it sounded to Lucian like a shout. He stumbled to a halt and looked around wildly for the source of the voice.

"You have a lot of rage," the voice said, this time from directly behind him. It sounded like a woman, or perhaps a girl.

He spun around, but there only saw empty alley before him.

"I can understand that," the voice continued from the opposite direction. "Needing someone to blame.

"You are Lucian Oakstaff. Your parents were farmers. You came to King's Landing two years ago with your wife and young daughter. Ashleigh is her name if I'm not mistaken."

By the gods, how did the voice know so much about him? He was nobody important. His blood ran cold as the answer reached him.

"You are the Master of Whispers," he breathed, instinctively speaking as softly as the voice.

The rumors surrounding the one called Arya were too fantastic to be believed, but trapped here in the dark, Lucian found himself recalling them all one by one. She was a ghost, the spirit of the king's dead sister brought back using some ancient magic he discovered north of the wall. She was part animal, raised in the woods by wolves, feeding on the flesh and blood of men. She was a trained assassin, who had killed the king's enemy's while they slept in bed to make way for his ascension to the iron throne.

"I am so," the voice said, sounding now almost childlike, which somehow made it that much more frightening. "I must say, you are beginning you draw attention to yourself with your speeches. That could prove to be dangerous."

There was a chuckle from the darkness before the voice continued, "You are mistaken, by the way. Your problems are not the fault of lords and kings. You drink too much, and that is why you cannot keep a job and why your wife kicked you to the streets. It's not the king. Not Jon."

Even with fear rising withing him, Lucian couldn't help but wonder at the voice referring to the king under such familiar terms.

"I have to admit that not everyone shares the same amount of wealth and prosperity. There will always be those who are find themselves at the bottom of the ladder of life. But if you were to look at it objectively, you would see that the king has done more for the poor than any of his predecessors, who looked at the people as little more than fodder to feed their war machines."

Lucian felt the anger build within him once more. "So that's how it is? Anyone who complains about the king must meet his attack dog in the middle of the night? Is the king so frightened of his people that he sends you into the streets to make sure everyone loves him enough?"

There was another chuckle, and for the first time, he saw a figure before him, darker than the shadows on either side.

"The king cares not about those who insult him behind his back. His skin is thicker than that to be sure. Again, there were other rulers, other families, who were much more concerned about those kinds of things. But, I have found it a good policy to keep an ear to the masses. What better way to discover their problems, so they can be reported to the king and he can help solve them."

Lucian scoffed at the answer.

"Believe me or no, it does not matter to me. I'm just explaining to you that your crime is not one of insult or lack of fealty."

"My crime?" Lucian asked, fear creeping up again to replace the anger.

"Yes, do not doubt that you committed it not an hour passed, when your rhetoric went from complaints to a call for action, specifically one of rebellion. That is a crime I cannot ignore, for the sake of my king."

"And what, pray tell, is my punishment to be?"

"Oh it is a simple one, to be sure. I shall prick you with a needle."

The answer confused Lucian, and he remained silent for a moment. The figure drew nearer and though he wished to flee, he found himself rooted to the cobblestone alley floor as he if had been nailed to it.

"Before me, there was a man named Varys in my position. They called him the spider, for he spun webs of cunning and deceit wherever he went. I like to think of myself as a scorpion. For I have a larger stinger."

There was a almost inaudible rustling sound, and Lucian felt a sudden and horrible pressure at his neck. Something shone before his eyes, and it took a long moment to realize it was the hilt of a sword, nearly resting against his chin.

He tried to take a breath, an action a moment before he could have done without a thought. But no air seemed to reach his lungs, only thick liquid. He tried to choke, but even that seemed impossible. In some primal part of his brain, he came to realize he had been stabbed in the throat.

And now she was directly before him, her gray eyes looking at him dispassionately, her hand gripping the sword.

"I'm sure Jon would not be pleased with me at this moment," Lucian heard her say. The world began to shrink around him, and she seemed to be further away when she continued. "But my brother has always been too softhearted for his own good."

Lucian's eyes caught the sense of motion and the hilt seemed to spin in place. What came next was darkness.


End file.
